


bloodred rose

by seventhstar



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alpha Katsuki Yuuri, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Bondage, Bonding, Dubious Consent, Forced Orgasm, M/M, Omega Victor Nikiforov, Swords & Sorcery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:33:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24482833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seventhstar/pseuds/seventhstar
Summary: “I want to duel,” the omega says. He has an accent that marks him as from one of the northern provinces. “You look strong enough. Perhaps you will oblige me.”“Fight…you?”“Are you frightened?” the omega asks. “I’ll fight one-handed if you need a handicap.”Yuuri’s heart pounds in excitement. The fit of the omega’s practice clothes suggests there’s muscle under the sleeves, over his shoulders; the fall of his shirt suggests a dagger is belted underneath. The collar is high and wide, covering his throat from his neckline to his chin, but Yuuri can see a hint of pink around the top edge, like a blush is hidden underneath.After a long moment, where neither of them speak and Yuuri fantasizes briefly about mounting him in the center of the square, of ripping off that collar with his teeth, Yuuri nods.
Relationships: Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov
Comments: 18
Kudos: 249





	bloodred rose

**Author's Note:**

> CONTENT WARNING: mention of forced marriage, dubcon, drugs (of the fantasy aphrodisiac kind, taken willingly).

Viktor isn’t allowed out of the convent.

The other omega maidens are at least allowed visitors, albeit with supervision, and can host them in gardens or on the rooftop. Viktor isn’t allowed out of the living quarters except to practice in the salle upstairs. He’s not even allowed to sit in front of the windows for longer than a few minutes at a time, in case he freckles.

If he was assured of more freedom in the future, after he turns eighteen next month and is sold, Viktor might have waited. But he knows the truth: someone with his powers will never be unsupervised.

Viktor isn’t allowed out of the convent. The Headmaster says it’s because someone might take advantage of him. As Viktor climbs down the wall, the Rusalia gongs ringing, he feels a frisson of excitement. Maybe someone will.

* * *

“You know,” Phichit says, “this might be your last Rusalia.”

“Shut up.”

Yuuri regrets having brought Phichit with him to finish the preparations for Rusalia. Both he and Phichit have been granted leave for the festival; standing at the top of the Grey Tower, they can see the whole of Capitalum spread out beneath them.

“What? It’s true. Captain Katsuki is too important to be rubbing noses with the peasants.” Phichit snorts.

“I don’t think it’s my nose they’re worried about,” Yuuri says.

He adjusts the discipliner on his forearm for the fourth time. It’s a custom piece, from a mage who specializes in such things; Yuuri’s pain tolerance is very high, and the last he needs is to bite some poor omega looking for a pleasant romp because his discipliner wasn’t up to par.

Phichit, lucky bastard, doesn’t even need to wear one. All he has on is a lightweight red tunic and hose, and the black ribbon that marks him as taken tied around his right arm. Chris is off somewhere, no doubt arranging something seductive and devious for them. Yuuri doesn’t envy Chris Phichit—though he laid with them once and enjoyed it—but he does envy the certainty they have.

Yuuri likes Rusalia, for the most part. He likes the duels, and the chasing, and the smell of driftrose burning, and all the pleasure that comes after he’s caught someone. Despite being the Captain of the Royal Guard, Yuuri has never won the King’s Duels, or distinguished himself in competition. He’s too frightened. He’s too easily intimidated by the crowd. But the rush of going into rut erases everything. Once a year, Yuuri gives in to the primal instincts he normally suppresses, and the rest of the year he spends wishing he could be half as free.

The fires are being lit in the city below.

“Going to do the honors?”

Yuuri sighs. Then he picks up the mallet lying nearby and bangs the gong three times. The sound, magically enhanced, rings out throughout the city. The white barrier rises over it until the city is encased completely, to keep the city safe during the festival. Even from the tower Yuuri hears the answering cheers.

Rusalia has begun.

* * *

The dueling has begun in earnest by the time Yuuri walks from Grey Tower to the dueling squares. Pink clouds of driftrose smoke rise from the burning biers that rest on every street corner; every lungful makes Yuuri’s blood race, his skin hot, until a lustful haze colors all his thoughts pleasantly. He passes a group of omegas with eager eyes and red ribbons on their arms; one of them has the white ribbon of a virgin around her wrist. She stares at Yuuri until he has to look away.

Yuuri rarely joins the wrestlers in the First Square or the mixed-weapons duels in Second; swordplay is his first and best love, and all the swordsmen of note duel in Fifth Square. He duels to exhibit only. There are some guards there, who are eager to prove themselves against him; once the pair fighting over a pretty blond omega are done, he joins the queue of alphas waiting for their turn in the square.

There are omegas gathered around the edges of the square, laughing, cheering. Some of the alphas choose from them, and some of them choose winning (and sometimes losing) alphas for themselves. Yuuri glances around, waiting for someone to catch his eye.

Something smells delicious.

Yuuri inhales sharply, turning his head to triangulate—and there, behind him, is an omega.

An omega with long, silvery hair, dressed in plain black practice clothes, the kind every swordsman wears at his fencing club. Other than the red ribbon tied hastily around his arm, he wears no adornment. But he is strikingly, fantastically beautiful, with glowing skin and long, pale fingers that are wrapped around the hilt of his blade. The hilt and the scabbard are in good condition, but the edges that should be sharp are just slightly rounded. This is no decorative blade. It’s well used.

 _Pretty,_ Yuuri thinks, and eyes the weave of his practice clothes, the bloodgem set into the hilt of his sword. _And rich._

“What’s your name? Did you want something?”

From the look he gets, the omega must think that unforgivably forward. _Definitely rich,_ Yuuri thinks, and _well-bred._ The omega’s eyes are blue. He has sharp, narrow eyes, and long lashes that do nothing to soften his expression. He’s just tall enough that he has to look down at Yuuri. Yuuri has seen butchers eye recalcitrant chickens with that same look. If he didn’t have the sword, and was dressed prettier, Yuuri would think he was a convent omega—one of the gently raised virgins rich alphas buy instead of taking mates like normal people.

“I want to duel,” the omega says. He has an accent that marks him as from one of the northern provinces. “You look strong enough. Perhaps you will oblige me.”

“Fight…you?”

“Are you frightened?” the omega asks. “I’ll fight one-handed if you need a handicap.”

Yuuri’s heart pounds in excitement. The fit of the omega’s practice clothes suggests there’s muscle under the sleeves, over his shoulders; the fall of his shirt suggests a dagger is belted underneath. The collar is high and wide, covering his throat from his neckline to his chin, but Yuuri can see a hint of pink around the top edge, like a blush is hidden underneath.

After a long moment, where neither of them speak and Yuuri fantasizes briefly about mounting him in the center of the square, of ripping off that collar with his teeth, Yuuri nods.

“Hey!” he calls. “I’m taking the square.”

There’s a round of cheers, mostly from the guardsmen present.

“Captain Katsuki’s going to duel!”

“Now we’ll see something good.”

“Ain’t he that one that never gets into the finals?”

“Ah, shut up! That’s just competition. In the field the Captain never loses.”

Yuuri hopes the omega is listening to the praise; for once, Yuuri himself can hear it without blushing.

He turns to the omega again and gestures to the now empty square. It’s best to get started quickly; once the crowd sees who his opponent is, there’ll be an uproar.

“Shall we?”

“…I’m Viktor,” the omega says, and before Yuuri can answer, he walks to the center of the square.

Yuuri follows, taking up a position opposite him. He draws his blade. “First one to get knocked from the ring wins,” he says, gesturing to the circle drawn in red paint outlining the dueling area.

In answer, Viktor undoes the button holding his collar closed, peels it off, and tosses it aside. He’s left bare to his collarbones, revealing his throat and the matching rose-red scent glands on either side of his neck. Someone in the crowd whistles; Yuuri swallows down irrational jealousy. Viktor draws his own blade and takes up a stance Yuuri doesn’t recognize.

Yuuri starts to move left, to circle until he sees an opportunity to attack, but before he can get more than two steps around Viktor starts to walk towards him. Slowly.

“Is that the only rule?”

“What?” Yuuri tenses, even as Viktor continues to approach him, his walk slow and unhurried.

“Am I allowed to kill you?”

“I—”

“I know what you get if you win,” Viktor says softly. “Shouldn’t I get something of equal value?”

Yuuri grins. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Viktor returns the smile—his lips are very pink—and for a moment lust clouds Yuuri’s instincts.

He puts up his sword. Yuuri readies himself. There is a brief moment of silence as the whole crowd hold their breath.

Viktor nearly cuts him down in the first second. He is viciously aggressive and Yuuri finds himself driven back. He barely fends Viktor off without losing his blade or his limbs. His heels are touching the edge of the circle before he’s able to defend himself properly. He darts to the side, forcing Viktor to turn to follow him; the sound of their swords clashing is louder than the blood pounding in Yuuri’s ears.

There is sweat dripping down Viktor’s bare neck. Yuuri tries not to look, does, is nearly cut down again. He tries to force Viktor down. He’s stronger; Viktor’s knees start to bend.

Yuuri is allowed one brief moment of triumph, one brief thought of knocking Viktor down so that Yuuri can fuck him right there in the street, and then Viktor kicks him so hard Yuuri is knocked off balance. There is a bright blur of silver as Viktor thrusts—Yuuri has to step back out of the way and then parry—Viktor slams the hilt of his sword into Yuuri’s chest and he goes flying.

And lands outside the circle.

For a moment Yuuri thinks he’s going to lunge in for the kill, but Viktor just looks at him. He’s flushed, chest heaving from exertion. Yuuri wants him more than ever. He starts to get up.

Viktor sheaths his sword, offers Yuuri a cursory bow, and flees.

He shoves through the crowd before Yuuri can get off the ground and is out of sight by the time Yuuri’s recovered his blade and his wits. His scent lingers in the air. Yuuri licks his lips. He stares in Viktor’s direction, thinking. The streets around Fifth Square are familiar to him; he’s patrolled here a thousand times. Viktor, if the quality of his clothes is any judge, will not know the best way to escape.

So Yuuri gives chase.

The grid arrangement of the streets surrounding the square, with their prominently marked numbers in brass, are too well-lit to hide in; Yuuri passes through the hordes of festival goers, alphas and omegas flirting and kissing and fucking, as he follows Viktor’s scent. Viktor has turned down a side street into Oldtown, where the streets are unmarked and twisty, and the ancient stone townhouses all look at the same. To an outsider, Yuuri thinks, it must look like an ideal place to hide.

To Yuuri, who knows Oldtown as well as the hilt of his sword, it’s a perfect hunting ground.

The windows in Oldtown’s houses are bolted against the festival air. There are dark alleys and nooks between buildings where amorous couples have holed up. One tall, dark couple fuck frantically between two rows of houses; Yuuri glimpses a lifted leg, hears a frightened squeal. Viktor’s scent is stronger, here, as if he stopped to watch. Yuuri wonders if he enjoyed it—if he imagined himself pressed against a wall, if he imagined himself being overcome in a dark alley.

There are fewer chases happening here. Most of the easier prey have been caught already. _But none of them would have caught Viktor,_ Yuuri thinks. _I’m the one he chose._

He follows Viktor’s scent, which is heavier with arousal with every step, down a familiar path, until he finds himself standing on his own street, just minutes from his house. Did Viktor follow the trace scent of Yuuri back here, or is it pure coincidence that he turned down this way? The lamps that usually light the street have been put out. Only the pink fire of the driftrose torches remains.

In the darkness, Viktor, dressed in black, might blend in. The driftrose might conceal his scent. Even on his own street, it might be a trial for Yuuri to find him.

Yuuri licks his lips. He’ll make Viktor pay for making him wait.

He walks slowly down the center of the street, listening, looking for that flash of silver in the gaps between rows of homes or in the spaces beneath stairs. None of the trees on the street droop with excess weight. There’s no sound but the crackling of the flames.

Yuuri pauses in front of his house. Red paint has been splashed over the front door as a warning. He can smell slick, very faintly, if he stands on the bottom stair. Viktor was here.

The urge is too powerful; Yuuri is so hard now that he aches. He sits down on the steps, thighs spread, and leans back, eyes closed, pretending to be distracted. His hand drops into his lap as he flicks open the button on his pants. He drags the heel of his hand over the bulge between his thighs, imagining Viktor’s long white fingers wrapped around him instead of a sword, imagining that cool, assessing look on Viktor’s face as Yuuri feeds him his cock.

Yuuri hears it—a sharp, shocked inhale.

He opens his eyes. Viktor is only feet away, creeping past him at the foot of the stairs, eyes wide. His cheeks and throat are scarlet; as their eyes meet, he quivers.

Yuuri lunges.

Viktor darts backwards, but he’s not quick enough this time. Yuuri closes the distance between them in an instant.

“Wait—”

Yuuri silences him with his mouth. He feels Viktor’s gasp against his lips as he winds Viktor’s braid around his hand and then pulls. Viktor’s head tips back, his flushed pink throat is exposed, Yuuri buries his face against it. The sweat dripping down his neck tastes of heat scent and driftrose; the skin is feverishly warm.

Yuuri drags him up the steps, pins him against the scarlet slash of paint on the door. Viktor struggles, but though in swordsmanship Yuuri is outclassed, in grappling he has the edge. He holds Viktor fast easily with the weight of his body. He parts Viktor’s thighs with his own, teeth scraping over the swell of a scent gland, and presses the heel of his hand against Viktor’s cunt.

Viktor squeals—Yuuri can tell he’s never been to Rusalia before, because he can feel all the unnecessary layers of fabric Viktor is wearing—but he stills when Yuuri nips at his throat.

“Shh,” Yuuri whispers.

“What are you doing?”

In answer, Yuuri kisses him again, and again. He drags his palm between Viktor’s legs, feeling for his clit through the fabric. He can feel it swelling under his touch; Yuuri’s not picky about omega presentation, has bedded omegas with tiny little clits and ones with full cocks longer than his own. Viktor is small enough that Yuuri has trouble getting a good grip on him. He tries to close his legs, but his thighs are trembling.

Yuuri can almost taste the driftrose madness on Viktor’s tongue.

And slowly, Viktor’s resistance begins to fade. The slick dripping from his cunt soaks through his clothes until Yuuri’s fingers are wet with it; he starts to cling to Yuuri instead of pushing him away; his protests fade to a soft, high whine. Yuuri grinds the heel of his hand relentlessly against the swell of Viktor’s clit and watches Viktor’s expression change, watches the pleasure undo him.

“Please,” Viktor says hoarsely, “I can’t—”

“You can.” Yuuri says firmly, and he puts his teeth against Viktor’s throat until the sting of the discipliner reminds him to stop. Viktor whimpers, but Yuuri can hear the squelch of slick, can feel the way Viktor is squirming—his hips pushing down against Yuuri’s hand rather than away. Yuuri curls his fingers up, pressing the tips where Viktor’s slit must be, and even through the fabric he feels Viktor’s lips part under the pressure.

Viktor’s nails bite into Yuuri’s back as he climaxes, his cry muffled by Yuuri’s mouth. What little strength he had seems to fade; Yuuri thinks if Viktor let go of him he’d fall.

“How did you find me?”

Yuuri laughs. “This is my house.”

He reaches behind Viktor to open the door. Viktor is too lovely to be undressed out here in the street. Better to do it in his den, where there’ll be no room to run and Yuuri can restrain him properly.

* * *

After Yuuri has tied him down and unbelted his sword—which he sets carefully aside on a table as not to disrespect it—he cuts away Viktor’s clothing. There are two daggers belted beneath his jacket, nestled between it and his shirt; both of them have the same bloodgem hilts as his sword. Viktor curses at him when Yuuri undoes the fastenings on the holsters and slips them off. The jacket and the shirt Yuuri cuts off, revealing an expanse of milky white skin near obscene in its perfection. Viktor’s squirming displays to advantage his taut muscle; his nipples are rosy and tight with arousal. The daggers have left two indentations, one beneath each nipple, that Yuuri licks and kisses before turning his attention elsewhere.

The red ribbon Viktor wore to mark him as available is lying discarded among the ruin of his clothes; Yuuri retrieves and ties it over Viktor’s eyes. Fear flits across Viktor’s face as Yuuri touches him again; he traces aimlessly over Viktor’s chest, which rises and falls heavily as he breathes. The flush around his scent glands has spread downward, and Yuuri covers every inch of it with kisses, stopping only to bite again at the swollen glands.

Viktor’s wrists are bound together over his head, held with a length of chain that Yuuri spent time before the festival securing. It rattles as Viktor tugs fruitlessly at it, and moreso when Yuuri touches the insides of his wrists where the scent glands have turned scarlet, down each forearm drawn tight with effort, up his his shoulders. Despite more skill than every swordsman in Yuuri’s contingent of guards combined, Viktor doesn’t have a single scar; only the firm muscle reveals him for a warrior.

 _He wasn’t strong enough to get away,_ Yuuri thinks, watching Viktor’s shoulders strain against his bonds. By morning he’ll have bruises; it was a struggle to get him tied down. Even now, Viktor holds his knees tightly pressed together.

Yuuri has a bottle of driftrose oil, worth its weight in gold ten times over. _Potent stuff,_ the apothecary who’d sold it to him had laughed. _Couple drops inside your omega, they’ll do anything to get you inside them._ He surveys Viktor, tense and hostile against the soft mattress in Yuuri’s den; most omegas are pliant enough after they’ve come once.

He lets a single drop fall onto each of Viktor’s nipples. He smears it over them, lightly scraping his nails against beaded flesh, until Viktor’s chest has a slick, pink sheen. Viktor’s chest is obviously sensitive—he flinches back against the sheets when Yuuri plucks at each nipple.

Yuuri waits. After a few moments, his fingertips start to tingle pleasantly.

“What is that—it burns—” Viktor whines as Yuuri tugs sharply at his nipple. “Stop, I can’t—”

He breaks off, whimpering, as Yuuri digs his nails in harder, pinching to the point of pain. Viktor’s entire body quivers under the touch; he mouths wordlessly, trying to speak. The hard, pink points of his nipples start to drip heatmilk, which mixes with the driftrose oil and runs down Viktor’s chest. Yuuri follows the trail it leaves with his tongue.

“I can’t,” Viktor says again. Yuuri doesn’t answer—he slides a hand under Viktor’s legs and then bites lightly at Viktor’s nipple. Viktor screams, and Yuuri presses a finger into the drenched fabric between his thighs.

“I think you can,” Yuuri says, lips brushing Viktor’s skin as he talks. “Feel how wet you are.” He wipes the slick across Viktor’s stomach, then pinches his nipple again with wet fingers. Milk is dripping down steadily now between his fingertips; Yuuri bends his head to where he has Viktor’s nipple caught and laps it steadily away.

The chains rattle as Viktor tries, fruitlessly, to get away; the slick of slick intensifies.

Viktor refuses to open his thighs for Yuuri, and so Yuuri slits open his clothing over each hip, cutting through three layers of fabric from the jut of his hip bone to his ankles. Viktor’s toes curl as Yuuri tears away everything, leaving him naked and struggling in scraps of black fabric. The soaked fabric between his legs sticks to his skin; Yuuri has to peel it off.

Daggers kiss the inside of each of Viktor’s thigh, held in place by bands of leather. Yuuri pulls each one down over knee and calf, dragging his nails over hard muscle and soft skin, watching Viktor’s skin pink under the pressure. Four daggers is two more than even guardsmen carry. He wonders if Viktor is as a good a hand with a knife as he is with a sword.

“Let me touch you,” Yuuri says.

“I can’t.”

“What, do they not let you come in your convent?”

“…yes,” Viktor says hoarsely.

Yuuri lets his touch linger: on the back of Viktor’s knees, thumbs pressed into the scent glands inside his thighs that frame his cunt, underneath to squeeze his firm ass.

“I could make it good for you.”

He feels Viktor relax, very slightly, under his hands. Yuuri jerks his knees apart, slotting himself between them, pressing Viktor’s thighs apart until they’re almost flat against the floor.

Yuuri was right about about Viktor’s clit. It’s not quite long enough to be a cocklet, but it’s plump and red, glistening with slick like melting candy. The lips of his sex are parted, with slick running down between them. The delicious smell of it makes Yuuri’s mouth water and his cock throb.

 _Imagine shutting someone this pretty up in a convent,_ Yuuri thinks. _With a cunt like this he should be getting stuffed with cock every night._

He lets a few drops of driftrose oil fall over Viktor’s cunt—one on the plump flesh on each side, two in the pink of his open cleft, and finally, one on the tip of his exposed clit. Yuuri spreads it over every inch of exposed flesh. It works quickly; Viktor’s cunt clenches on empty air, clit twitching, muscles tightening until the tendon inside each thigh is hard as stone. He starts to close his legs, and immediately pull them apart again, as if the cool air of the den might give him some relief.

Yuuri had tested this bottle on himself, just to ensure he hadn’t been fleeced. There had been no relief, not for hours and hours, until it finally wore off on its own.

The scent glands inside each of Viktor’s thighs are inflamed. Yuuri gently massages them first; his thumbs slide inward, along the crease between thigh and groin, until he’s touching the plush flesh on either side of Viktor’s cunt. The scent of the driftrose has mixed with the scent of his sex.

He spreads Viktor wide. Viktor whines—his cunt must be burning by now—and Yuuri has mercy.

Viktor tastes as sweet as he smells.

Yuuri licks him softly, tracing around Viktor’s dripping entrance, then out over the soft flesh all around. He can hear Viktor panting; his skin is like silk under Yuuri’s tongue. He kisses the open cleft of Viktor’s cunt, from the rivulets of slick up to just below his clit. He laps all around it; the heat of his breath is enough to make Viktor cry out. Yuuri wraps his lips around it—Viktor’s pulse is erratic in his mouth—and sucks.

Slick spatters across Yuuri’s face as Viktor comes, moaning low and soft as Yuuri lets his clit slip out from between his lips.

Blood is pounding in Yuuri’s ears. He fingers Viktor a little, ignoring the way Viktor jumps—his cunt must be more sensitive than he can bear—Viktor is wet and loose inside with pleasure. He taps Viktor’s clit with his thumb; Viktor’s cunt tightens around his fingers. Viktor is sweaty and shaking, arms hanging limp in their chains; Yuuri looks at his mouth. He licks his lips. The driftrose oil has left them tingling.

He undoes the restrains and hauls Viktor into his lap. Viktor fumbles with the blindfold until it slips down, and Yuuii catches one of the ends hanging down from the knot and pulls it tight until it circles Viktor’s neck like a collar. He pulls Viktor in until their noses are almost touching. Even in the dark, Viktor’s eyes are almost inhumanely blue.

“Shh,” Yuuri murmurs. He puts a hand on the back of Viktor’s head and brings him in to kiss. Viktor struggles, briefly, as the driftrose on Yuuri’s lips transfers to his; then his mouth falls open submissively. He holds onto Yuuri weakly, and Yuuri slides his hands down Viktor’s back, his hips, pulling him forwards until their chests are touching and heatmilk runs down both their chests.

Viktor’s soaked cunt touches his cock; Yuuri can feel slick and driftrose oil against the head. He holds Viktor tight against him while he struggles—it takes hardly any strength, Viktor is too heat-addled to do more than whimper—mouthing praise against his lips as he lines Viktor’s cunt up with his cock.

“Fuck,” Viktor says. He looks shocked at his own profanity; they must not let him swear in his convent, either. “No, don’t—” He buries his face in Yuuri’s neck as he’s penetrated. Yuuri settles him down into his lap slowly—the heat of Viktor’s cunt is incredible, he takes Yuuri so easily—until the lips of Viktor’s sex are pressed against Yuuri’s groin.

Yuuri lowers him back onto the mattress, tugging at Viktor’s hair until his head drops back against the sheets. Viktor’s lashes are wet, his lip red where he’s bitten it. Yuuri pulls out, slowly, until the lips of Viktor’s cunt are just touching him, and then he fucks into Viktor again, watching him shudder against the sheets with every thrust. He drinks in the sight of Viktor—his open legs, his pale fingers knotting the sheets in his fists, the racing pulse in his throat—his mouth waters.

The discipliner around Yuuri’s arm tightens in warning.

Yuuri hardly feels it. The base of his cock is swelling—Viktor cries out as Yuuri forces it into him—he thumbs roughly at Viktor’s clit as Viktor squirms, his cunt distended by the knot stuffed inside him.

“Please—”

Viktor bites him.

There’s blood on his lips when he lets go, leaving a stinging mark in Yuuri’s shoulder. His eyes meet Yuuri’s as he licks them clean, and Yuuri pins him against the bed as he comes. The discipliner constricts until Yuuri’s arm starts to go numb, but he can’t feel it anymore: he licks the blood from Viktor’s lips, and when Viktor finally bares his neck, returns the favor.

The taste of his blood is headier than the driftrose. Lust takes over; Yuuri loses his mind.

* * *

There is sunlight streaming over Viktor’s face when he wakes.

He knows immediately that he isn’t at home—there are no windows in the room in the convent where the omega maidens sleep—and he’s tempted to roll back over and go back to sleep. If there’s this much sunlight, Viktor will have been missed by now. Headmaster Duchan, the beta in charge of auctioning Viktor off to the highest bidder, will have realized that Viktor is worthless now.

All of these things should be upsetting, but instead Viktor feels deeply sated and calm, as if he’s in a hot bath. Someone is running their fingers through his loose hair. Viktor is not used to being touched, but he feels as if he could happily melt into the mattress under these ministrations.

His mouth tastes of blood.

Viktor opens his eyes. He’s lying in a tangle of sheets, his head pillowed in someone’s lap. Someone turns out to be the alpha from last night—dark hair, dark eyes, glasses—who has a bite mark on his shoulder in the gleaming gold of Viktor’s magic.

 _Mine,_ Viktor thinks, the last of his fear slipping away like dust in the wind; he closes his eyes again and lets sleep take him.

**Author's Note:**

> honestly, i'm not even sure if i like this fic, but yolo


End file.
